


The Best of Life is But Intoxication

by apidologist



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drunkenness, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1486492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apidologist/pseuds/apidologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Essentially, H and W get drunk and some naughty stuff happens. If that doesn't entice you, please allow me to add that there are sock garters involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best of Life is But Intoxication

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vernets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vernets/gifts).



Holmes tripped across the threshold of the door to the sitting room, half-stuck in his heavy coat. Watson followed behind, chuckling, but steadier on his feet. Early that morning Holmes had completed an extremely difficult robbery case, and Watson had assisted in every step of the proceedings; as such, both were exhausted and slept for much of the day before awakening and deciding to celebrate with a late supper.

Watson divested himself of coat and scarf and made his way to the sideboard. Holmes, meanwhile, was staring into a mirror with a mock-distressed expression. He had finally managed to unwind his scarf from around his neck and noticed that his bow tie had become crooked and uneven. “Watson! Oh no, Watson, you spent nearly a quarter of an hour fussing with my tie before we left, and now look what’s become of your hard work.”

He feigned disappointment with the man’s dishevelment, then untangled the offending material and removed it from his neck in one swift movement. “Does it still trouble you?”

“No indeed, my distress is alleviated. Ah, thank you!” Watson had brought him a glass of brandy to top off the few drinks they had before their meal as well as the bottle of wine during.

As they made their way to their respective chairs, Holmes seemed uncertain on his feet, and Watson held out his arm questioningly.

“Don’t be utterly ridiculous, I am perfectly capable of crossing the room without damaging anything,” he insisted, immediately stumbling against and toppling a tall stack of paperwork. He snorted in laughter, frowned when he remembered those documents had recently been organized for filing, then helplessly began to giggle again at the mess on the floor.

Watson tried to keep a stern expression as he took his seat. “Oh _really_ – what will poor Mrs. Hudson think?”

“She’s – oof!” Here he dropped onto the settee with little ceremony, not noticing the brandy that crested over the edge of his glass. “The good lady left during our little rest; I believe she is obliged to attend the wedding of a niece this week-end.”

“Well, you should at least try to keep from making any more of a mess, she may be a patient woman, but I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these days she throws us out on the streets!” Watson’s accompanying gesture sent his glass, still half-full of brandy, careening toward the floor – thankfully it rolled behind a chair leg without breaking, though the amber liquid left a patch of discoloration as it was absorbed by the rug. Holmes was sent into another fit of laughter, sliding down onto the carpet with his glass still cradled in both hands.

“Oh, my dear fellow, what will you do now? Isn’t that the last of the brandy? That won’t do, that won’t do at all, come here, you must share the last of mine.”

“You’re half-lying on the floor, Holmes.”

“Yes – and you’re about to join me. Prop yourself up against the settee.”

Watson obeyed with a fond sigh. He took the glass from Holmes and stretched his legs out in front of him, taking a small sip and chuckling at how absurd they must look, sprawled on the floor like children. Holmes, pleased that Watson had given up his more comfortable seat in the armchair to join him, smiled unguardedly and rested his head upon Watson’s shoulder.

“My dear Holmes, you really are _most_ exasperating.”

“Would you prefer me any other way?”

“Hmph! How would you like it if I said I would?”

“I wouldn’t like it, but I wouldn’t antagonise you any less.”

They passed the glass back and forth between them until it was empty, and now Watson had no reasonable (or unreasonable) pretence for staying on the hard ground, yet he leaned further towards Holmes, who shifted still closer and brought his arm around Watson’s middle, pulling him to his chest. They stayed this way for some minutes, relaxing against one another in companionable silence. Holmes fondled the buttons of Watson’s waistcoat with one hand, and the other carded through his hair and once fell to stroke his cheek in a tender caress.

Just as Holmes was silently willing himself to keep from becoming aroused, at least obviously so, in case his friend happened to notice (he always had an especially difficult time resisting him when inebriated, and with his reassuring warmth and proximity it was becoming near impossible), Watson was struck with a sudden flare of anxiety as he realized his position, and worried that Holmes would not approve of such contact if he were sober. Much as he wished to continue in a similar way for the rest of the evening until they succumbed to sleep, folded in each other’s arms, he had to ensure that this was not something they were going to recall with much shame and awkwardness when they awoke the next morning.

“Er, Holmes. Is this exactly…I mean, I suppose this is rather improper.”

“But who is around to comment on such things?

“Do _you_ find it to be so?”

“Not in the slightest. In fact, I find the situation most agreeable.”

“Mm. Good.” Watson had turned his head so that his nose burrowed into Holmes’ neck and his words were muffled in his collar. “Then,” he shifted back slightly and turned to face Holmes more fully, “perhaps this will also be agreeable to you.”

Emboldened by Holmes’ words, he pressed a soft kiss beneath Holmes’ jaw, and meeting with no objection, trailed his lips further downwards, pausing in the dip between Holmes’ collar bones before retracing his movements. He slowed at the hard curve of his chin and drew away just before reaching his lower lip, suddenly bashful. Holmes lifted his head from the settee, moving his hands to frame the sides of Watson’s blushing face. As their eyes met it became difficult to break that contact, as both had such plain adoration in their expressions. Finally they inclined towards one another, and despite their previous lack of co-ordination, their lips aligned perfectly. As the kiss deepened, their tongues moved sensually together, each eliciting many small noises of pleasure from the other. Every gentle moan was sure to bring forth an echoing hum, with mumbled endearments and soft sighs mixing in the small space between them. Both were almost disbelieving of the reality of their actions, and avoided separating for as long as possible to preserve the dreamlike state in which they had lost themselves.

Watson was the one who eventually broke away to meet Holmes’ eyes again. In control, in everyday life, he was sharp, bright, captivating – but with his hair falling across his damp forehead, cheeks glowing, eyes dark, lower lip caught between his teeth as he fought to keep still, he was nothing short of beautiful. Watson felt a warm ache of affection spread through his chest at the sight of him.

They reached simultaneously for one another’s collars, waistcoat buttons, trouser fastenings, immediately needing to remove those barriers between them, but quite ineffective in doing so in their intoxicated state. Holmes pushed himself carefully to his feet, and began to undress himself properly. He removed his waistcoat, shirt, and trousers, tossing them away with little regard for where they landed, but as he wobbled onto one foot and attempted to unclasp his sock garters, Watson reached to swat his hands away, flushing even more deeply.

“Please…leave them.” His voice was rough and suffused with unmistakeable desire.

Holmes obliged with a soft smile. He knelt down to assist Watson in divesting his outer accoutrements, also ensuring he left his socks and undergarments as they were, and placing his lips on each new range of bare skin as it was revealed to him – kneecaps, hips, and shoulders all received their due attention before their lips met again with renewed passion.

They were soon prostrated on the rug, legs entwined. Their kisses grew more and more heated, and they could feel each other’s arousal growing insistent through the thin layers of underclothing. Wrapped tightly in each other’s arms, they rocked against one another and allowed their hands to wander freely. Watson soon braced himself atop Holmes to align their hips more pleasurably, pulled a pillow from the nearest chair on which Holmes could rest his head, and increased the speed and vigour of his movements, occasionally alternating with a sensual and agonizing roll of the hips that left them both needy for more direct contact.

Holmes’ hands alighted on Watson’s chest, forearms, hair, atop his hands, unsure where to settle, wanting to touch all of him at once. He brought his mouth up to Watson’s ear and whispered, “I need to feel you, let me – let me–” followed by clumsy and frustrated pushing at fabric, and fingers tripping up in their rush to feel the bare skin beneath.

Watson pulled back from Holmes’ restless hands and sat back on his heels to remove the restricting undergarment, pushing his own down to his knees, in far too much of a hurry for anything else. He ran his hands from Holmes’ ankles up to his knees, then hooked his fingers in the elastic of the garters and hoisted Holmes’ legs around his waist in an effort to gain more leverage, breath hitching as the cool metal of the clasps dragged against his sides. Holmes hooked his socked feet behind Watson’s back and lifted his hips off the ground impatiently, which brought them into even better alignment.

 “Watson, do you want…do you want more than this? You may have whatever you wish of me.”

“No – yes, but no, I’m sorry, Holmes, I’m nearly–”

“Thank goodness, I couldn’t last another minute. Fuck me like this, take me anyway – give me your hand–” Holmes guided Watson’s fingers around them both. “Please, quickly, _please_ …”

Watson had nearly lost control at the sound of such an invective in the other’s voice, but he recovered himself, and they both thrusted into his firm grasp. Their breaths grew still more ragged and their kisses were clumsily broken by gasps and cries. Holmes spent first, legs tightening and hips driving upwards; Watson soon followed him over the edge, and they fell against each other, panting and shuddering convulsively as the last waves of ecstasy crashed about them, and the blood pounding in their skulls faded to a blissfully lightheaded rush.

In the end, after cleaning themselves with a discarded shirtsleeve, covering their entangled limbs with a blanket from beneath the settee, and whispering some soft words of adoration, they did fall asleep in each other’s arms, and in perfect contentment.

**Author's Note:**

> My absolute favourite dork and ~partner in crime~ Basil did a [naughty drawing](http://grossbees.tumblr.com/post/83145790099/naughty-exchange-from-last-september-with-my) for this silly story, so if you need some gross visual accompaniment I do suggest you have a look.
> 
> The quote in the title is from Byron's 'Don Juan'.


End file.
